The Vampire & Her Witch

For a time, Eleanor simply sat in her cell, huddled in the fading warmth of her burning robes and watching the flames slowly burn down into embers. The sun had set long ago by the time the last of the flames died away, leaving her alone in the darkness of her cell as the cold of a winter night seeped in.

Inwardly, she knew that she should get up off the cold, stone floor of her cell. Much like wading into the cold sea would leech warmth from the body, so too would remaining on the ground. If she wanted to stay warm, if she wanted to survive, she needed to leave the burned scraps of her sacred robes behind and move to the dungeon cell’s rickety cot. It wouldn’t be any more comfortable than the stone floor, but it would at least be warmer.

Still, she couldn’t move. The cold had settled deep into her bones, making her thoughts slow and thick like honey left out in winter. Her fingers had gone numb hours ago, and now even her arms felt heavy and distant, as though they belonged to someone else. The shivering that had wracked her body when the robes first finished burning had gradually subsided, not because she was warming up, but because her body no longer had the strength to shiver.

She knew, dimly, that this was dangerous. She’d heard the sailors back home tell stories of men who’d fallen into the winter sea, how they’d grow quiet and still before the end came. How they’d stop fighting, stop struggling, and just... slip away into the cold.

But knowing she was in danger and being able to do something about it were two very different things. Her mind railed at her, berating her to get up and do something, anything other than sitting here and allowing herself to freeze to death, but her body refused to obey. The cot might as well have been hundreds of leagues away from her instead of just two short paces from where she lay on the cold stone floor.

The Holy Fire had consumed more than just her robes when Inquisitor Percivus lit them on fire. By the time the flames went out, she felt as brittle and fragile as the ashes of her vestments, and the cold was finishing what the flames had started.

”Why did the miracle work for him?” Eleanor whispered, her voice barely audible even in the silence of the cell. Her throat was painfully dry, and her lips felt stuck together until she forced them apart to speak.

They’d given her no water since before Percivus’s visit, and the hours of sitting in the cold had left her parched. She reached out with a trembling hand to touch the ashen remains of her robes, her fingers so stiff and clumsy that she could barely feel the texture of the ash.

”Why did the Holy Lord of Light let him do this to me?” The question came out cracked and hoarse. ”Am I really, really unfit to be a Confessor?”

Ever since the incident in Marquis Bors’ bed chamber, Eleanor and Jocelynn had argued that her ability to call upon the miracle of healing in order to save Jocelynn’s life was proof that they weren’t aligned with demons or the forces of darkness. They still walked in the light and they couldn’t be heretics or the miracle would have failed them.

But if that was true, then why had the Holy Flames come to Percivus’s hand when he called on them to burn her robes to ash? Had the Light forsaken her? Was this part of the price she needed to pay for Jocelynn’s miracle?

She didn’t know, but she knew who to ask.

If she could just find the strength to pray. If her body would just cooperate long enough for her to make one final plea.

Chains clanked in the darkness of the night as Eleanor slowly collected herself, folding her legs underneath her body and bowing in the direction of what little remained of her robes as she pressed the palms of her hands and her forehead to the floor.

The iron bar between her wrists prevented her from clasping her hands in prayer, and many formal supplications would be awkward, if not impossible, with the shackles restricting her movements, but in his hubris, the Inquisitor had forgotten something that a person of true faith should always remember. Before the Holy Lord of Light, even Kings and Saints must submit, and so she submitted now, praying in the manner of a beggar without pride or position.

”I am lost and unworthy of your miracles,” she said in a soft, reverent whisper. ”But I have always believed that even those who have drowned in darkness can still see the faintest glimmers of the light. Why else would you give us so many stars at night if not to guide us back toward the light of day?”

It was one of the central tenets of her order. A Confessor’s duty in life was to help people admit their wrongs, to allow them to bring their crimes into the light of day so that restitutions could be made, and penance could be done.

For some, it might be impossible to fully atone in this life, but so long as a person was willing to struggle against their own darkness, to do the right things with however many days they had left, they could reduce the burdens they carried into the next life.

Eventually, even the most depraved of men could reach the Heavenly Shores if they were willing to turn away from the darkness and truly sought the Light with their whole hearts. There was no way of knowing if any of the people she’d guided over the years would reach the Heavenly Shores at the end of this life, but she’d seen broken families made whole again.

She’d seen men consumed by strong wine who turned away from the bottle, and she’d seen women consumed by bitterness and hatred who learned to open their hearts once more. She’d seen miracles that touched her heart and reaffirmed her faith almost every day of her life since she donned the gold and crimson robes of her order.

Now, kneeling in the dark, she poured every ounce of faith she still possessed into a prayer carried all the way from the sea to guide lost sailors home, hoping against hope that she could find the strength for one last miracle...